


Side of the Angels

by Alys_Brauer



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack Crossover, Crossover, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Johnlocking and listening to soundtracks, M/M, Potentially Crossdressing, You never really know, book to play to fanfiction, characters as other characters, it all works out in the end, lack of justification, no justification for anything, probably, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:06:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alys_Brauer/pseuds/Alys_Brauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wandering child, welcome to the London Opera. There mysteries abound, and a great game is afoot. Where devils hide behind angel masks, and one soprano singer is about to find the side of the angels is blurred in the haze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London 1919

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Side of the Angels, a reworking of Phantom of the Opera with Sherlock characters taking the place of the original cast. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it.

**Introduction: London 1919**

The cobbled streets of London rattled under the wheels of his motor vehicle as it moved through the busy streets. An old man sat quietly inside, his hazel eyes distant and contemplative as they stared absent mindedly out of the window. If the automobile was not enough of an indicator that the man was not your average London citizen, his attire would certainly have cleared any illusions one might have. He was dressed as a noble, in an expensive suit with a scarf wrapped firmly around his neck to keep out the autumn chill, a top hat rested in his lap where his fingers vacantly stroked its rim. He was focused on some distance time, or perhaps it was some distant place, but it was certainly not in the vehicle, nor on the buildings that rolled by.

As the vehicle pulled to a stop, the man visibly pulled himself back from wherever it had been that his mind had taken him.

At his side, the door to the vehicle was opened by an attendant, dressed in nurse’s whites. She stood beside a wheel chair that waited by the door for him. A blanket was draped over its back, ready to keep his legs warm when they reached their destination. Ignoring the wheeled contraption as well as the woman, the man instead turned his attention to the building they had arrived at. It had changed so much since then. Once a grand and imposing structure that spoke of the wealth and power gathered within its marbled halls, the London Opera had fallen into a dilapidated state of disrepair. It was almost sad, to see this place where it had all began reduced to such a sorry state.

“So we have returned,” his voice was quiet. The comment off hand, said vacantly and to no one except the ghosts of memories in his mind. After so many years, to return…even in its current state, this old building brought back so many memories. So many…He shook his head slightly, but his ghosts only burned brighter in his mind; yes, so many memories indeed.

“My lord?” his attendant frowned slightly. She had not quite caught the half whispered words of her employer.

“I said put that thing away,” came the nobleman’s reply. “I’ll use my cane. I’m not a complete invalid…yet,” he rubbed his leg absently, before flashing a half rueful, half apologetic smile. Taking the stick that rested against his leg, he shifted carefully, holding tightly onto the side of the car before stepping down, leaning heavily on his support.

Grimacing, he straightened with obvious care. “No…” he said heavily, holding his hand up to forestall any offers of help that might be forthcoming. “No,” he repeated more firmly this time. “I will do this on my own.” After all these years, he would be damned if he didn’t walk through those doors under his own power. Determined, he turned back to the open door of the vehicle and retrieved the hat that he had left on the seat, placing it firmly on his head. He was ready. Determined, he limped up the wide steps and through the once familiar doors that stood propped open.

The sound of his cane echoed eerily on the cracked marble floor. His gait, once strong, even and purposeful, had been become slow and off kilter. But he was a proud man, too proud to face his ghosts in a chair that he had no need for. To think that it would be this of all things that caused him to return after nearly forty years…Taking a steadying breath, he continued his way slowly through the old halls toward the stage area. If one looked hard enough, it was still possible to see how these halls had once shone and glittered with wealth and elegance. But no more now…no more…

“Sold!” the sound of an auctioneer’s voice echoed down easily from the stage area, interrupting his reveries. The acoustics had not suffered then. “Your number sir?” the man continued. “Thank-you,” he inclined his head in the direction of the buyer as the nobleman limped onto the stage and made his way over to the small group gathered in front of the auctioneer’s stand.

Pausing, the man secured himself a number before the next item was brought forward.

“Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached is the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item was discovered in the vaults of the theatre. Still in working order,” he sounded particularly pleased by this last point.

“Displayed here,” a porter brought the item forward, winding it to prove its condition. A melody drifted over the crowd.

“May I start the bidding at twenty francs?” the auctioneer suggested hopefully.

Biding his time, the man fixed his eyes on the music box. He leaned heavily against his cane, his leg bothering him, but there was no reason to start the bidding high. He could wait.

“Fifteen then?” the auctioneer decreased the price.

There was movement at the edge of the small crowd. Someone had taken up the offer.

“Fifteen, I am bid,” the auctioneer called, nodding to the gray haired man.

The gentleman turned, hazel eyes meeting brown across the room. Recognition flashed between the two men in that instant, each nodding to the other. Yes. They had both returned it seemed.

The auction proceeded. 20 from the Earl. 25 from Mister Lestrade.

“Sold!” the auctioneer proclaimed. “For thirty francs to John Watson, Earl of Baskerville.”

Mister Lestrade smiled slightly, shaking his head, letting John have this particular item. It was only right that he should claim it.

“Thank-you sir,” the auctioneer inclined his head respectfully.

The man, John, inclined his head in return, nodding at the same time to Lestrade. Shifting, he adjusted his balance, watching as the porter brought the item to him. Balancing carefully, he took the music box with gentle, albeit slightly shaking, hands.

_‘A collector’s piece indeed,’_ he thought, turning the box in his hands. He took in all the details. _‘Every detail is exactly as he said…’_ a small smile quirked at the corner of his lips; of course it was, that would not have changed. It was no surprise at all. “He often spoke of you my friend,” he whispered to himself as he lightly traced the figure of the monkey on the lid. It was almost as if he had seen it before, and was making sure that nothing was out of place. “Your velvet lining…and your figurine of lead…” a soft sigh fled his lips as he raised his eyes, catching Greg Lestrade watching him, and the music box. “I wonder,” John mused, letting his eyes fall back down to the monkey. “Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?” It may not take too long for that question to be answered, considering the state of things.

“Lot 666 then,” the auctioneer continued on. “A chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery that was never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster,” he gestured, and all eyes turned to where he pointed. “Our workshops have repaired it and have also wired parts of it for the new electric light so that we may get a hint of how it may look when reassembled. Gentlemen?”

Slowly, the chandelier rose. The electric lights were turned on, shining and casting shadows across all those present. John watch, transfixed. Memories danced across his eyes, it was so easy to see, the past and present superimposed. He could remember it all so clearly.

“Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination.”


	2. 1870, The Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the London Opera. Introducing the cast, and the villain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to update this story on a weekly basis. Chapters are written following the scenes of the play, so lengths will vary. Scene one is apparently exceptionally long, which is why I have broken it into two parts. I hope you enjoy ^^

The sound of imperious tapping of a baton on metal caused a great deal of stumbling as the music previously resounding through the theatre ground to a rather inelegant halt. “Signore,” a rather tired woman’s voice said. Her short cropped blonde hair stuck up at awkward angles from where she had run her baton through it. “Signore if you please,” she said evenly, looking up at the male lead of the London Opera, Signore Norton. “’Rome’,” she enunciated clearly. “We say ‘Rome’, not ‘Roma’.” The woman was quite frustrated. How was anything going to be ready in time for the gala tomorrow? Her stars couldn’t even correctly pronounce the words of the opera.

“Si, si,” the rather bookish opera singer said rather apologetically. “Rome, not Roma, is very hard for me,” he continued plaintively. “Rome…Rome…” he repeated the word slowly, practicing the sound of it diligently. Based on looks and the way he carried himself, the tenor appeared to be more suited to the life of a lawyer than a singer. That was, until he opened his mouth and began to sing – provided he could properly pronounce what he was supposed to be singing.

The conductor, Mrs. Hudson nodded a trifle stiffly. “I am your conductor signore, not your voice coach. Please be more diligent,” she said, working quite hard to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Smoothly, she raised her baton. “Once again then, if you please Signore,” she said evenly. “Sad to return…” came the prompt.

“This way please, this way,” a well-dressed gentleman ushered an equally well dressed gentleman and an impeccably clothed woman onto the stage. The first neatly sidestepped the stage hands that were rushing about with ladders and paint, frantically trying to finish the props and scenery before they were required the next night. The other two danced about awkwardly trying not to get in the way of the bustle carrying on around them. “Rehearsals, as you can see, are under way for a new production of Chuleau’s “Hannibal”,” he paused a moment, noting that rehearsals were, in fact, not underway just at that moment. Smiling slightly, and the slightest bit anxiously, he moved to the center of the stage, motioning for his guests to follow him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, gaining everyone’s immediate attention. “You may have already, perhaps, met Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Donovan,” he gestured to the two, who bowed politely, if awkwardly, to the assembled cast.

An annoyed noise came from the music pit. “Mister Dimmock,” the irritated voice of Mrs. Hudson rose from the orchestra pit. She shook her head at the man, not pleased with the interruption to her rehearsal. “I’m sorry, but we are rehearsing. If you wouldn’t mind…just waiting a moment?” she suggested. Though her tone was mild it was clear she was really in no mood to argue the point.

“My apologies Mrs. Hudson,” Dimmock said quickly. “Proceed, proceed,” he gestured vaguely as he retreated with his two guests.

The conductor returned her attention to the cast. Signalling Signore Norton, she raised her baton once more, causing the musicians to raise their instruments in a flurry. “’Sad to return’…Signore,” she prompted yet again, nodding to indicate it was time to return to business.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Dimmock whispered to his two companions as rehearsal resumed behind them. “A wonderful conductor, quite accommodating really,” he said confidingly. Mrs. Hudson was a kind woman, always willing to lend a hand, despite her attempts to act stern and implacable. She was the type of woman one would want for a landlady, not a person one would normally associate with a world renowned conductor. Still, the results were undeniable, and she seemed to have the company mostly under control, despite her deceptively mild personality. There was toughness there that she didn’t often let show, unless she was challenged.

_“Sad to return to the land we love,”_

Signore Norton picked up as Mrs. Hudson prompted.

_“Threatened once more by_

_Rome’s far-reaching grasp._

_Tomorrow we shall break_

_The chains of Rome._

_Tonight, rejoice – your army has_

_Come home.”_

As Signore Norton held his proclaiming note, the orchestra continued. The grand march changed into a ballet, and the ballerina’s moved out onto the stage, beginning their dance.

Despite the rehearsal continuing on around them, Dimmock returned his attention to his companions, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were still in the way of the ballerinas. “Signore Norton” he pointed to the unobtrusive man trying to portray importance a at center stage as the slave-girl ballerinas continued their dance around him. “Our principal tenor,” he nodded. “He plays opposite _The Woman_ , Ms. Irene Adler.”

An exasperated sigh came from behind the small group, audible above the orchestration along with three imperious bangs from a cane. “Gentlemen, please,” said an irritated voice. A serious man dressed in a stylish suit approached them, cane in hand. His blue eyes clearly stated what a nuisance he thought these guests were and there was no little amount of condescension in the way he moved purposefully toward them. “If you would kindly move to one side?” he raised a brow at them, motioning them away. They were quite obviously in the way, and equally obvious was the fact that they were oblivious to it. It was most vexing.

“My apologies Mister Holmes,” Dimmock said quickly, inclining his head to the ballet master. “Mister Mycroft Holmes,” he said to Anderson and Donovan, leading them aside, away from center stage.  “I don’t mind confessing Mrs. Donovan, I shan’t be sorry to be rid of this whole blessed business,” he said seriously, turning back to look to the stage as they reached the wings.

“I keep asking you Mr. Dimmock,” Donovan said seriously, looking at the man carefully as they stood to the side. “Why exactly _are_ you retiring?” It was about the fifth time that she had asked this question and had yet to receive a satisfactory response to the inquiry. Of course, it wasn’t that she was not pleased for the change - to elevate her station along with her partner, Mister Anderson - but it was a mystery; why would such a well-placed man sell such a prestigious business?

Once again, Dimmock ignored the question. There was no need to go into the particulars, not when the point of this visit was to finalize the sale of the London Opera to these two businessmen.  After all, he had spent the majority of his time as the owner of the Opera quietly doing as he was directed; true, the results had been a rising fame for himself, but it was more than time for him to retire and forget the one who really ran the opera from the shadows. “We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets,” he answered instead, hoping to distract them sufficiently enough that the question would be forgotten once again.

Fortunately, at that moment, one of the stars of the ballet came to prominence. An elegant young man leaped to the front of the stage, trailing decorative chains as he danced gracefully to the music.

“Who is _that_ one, Dimmock?” Anderson’s eyes lit immediately on him, a predatory grin briefly crossing his features.

“Him?” Dimmock looked toward where Anderson was gesturing. “That is Gregory Lestrade, Mister Holmes' favourite protégé. A promising dancer Mr. Anderson, most promising,” he nodded with obvious pride, endorsing the talent that was already quite visible at the London Opera. While they had already agreed to buy the business from him, it did not hurt to promote it a bit more to ensure they did not back out at the last moment.

In front of them, the ballet continued. Lestrade had moved further down the stage while the dance continued, bringing a new dancer to the front. The tall, slender dancer with curly black hair was slightly out of step with the rest of the dancers. His eyes were vacant, clouded with thoughts that obviously had nothing to do with the music and routine, his absent-minded steps were quite visibly clashing with the rest of the performers.

“You! Sherlock Holmes!” again, the imperious banging of Mycroft’s cane cut through the orchestra, causing the dancers to glance back toward him. “Concentrate!” he shouted in irritation. This was not the first time that Sherlock had thrown off the ballet, nor, he was sure, would it be the last. The boy always seemed to be lost in his own world, or in a world created by other things that he knew he should not imbibe in.

Lestrade looked over to his dancing partner, his eyes concerned. “Sherlock…what’s the matter?” he said quietly to the other male.  Unfortunately, there was not time for the other to answer; it was enough, however, to bring him back to the present and his surroundings in order to fall back into step.

“Holmes?” Donovan looked over to Dimmock, her eyes curious as she watched the ballet continue. “A curious name, and the second time you've mentioned it.”

“Is it?” Dimmock responded surprised. "Well yes I suppose, he is the brother of our ballet master."

“Any relation to the violinist?” Anderson looked over, joining the conversation.

Dimmock looked almost surprised that he had made the connection. “His sons, I do believe,” he nodded in confirmation. “The elder was never much involved with the family from what I gather. The younger...well...he always has his head in the clouds I’m afraid.” It was a pity, he had the looks, and the talent as well, but it was rare that he actually applied himself. Rather, it seemed that the dancer was always bored when it came to the routines.

 As they continued to watch, the ballet progressed. Now that Sherlock had been brought back to the present, his movements harmonized well with Lestrade’s and the other dancers. The ballet rose to its climax, the skills Dimmock had advocated earlier becoming quite evident before the music changed once again, returning to the opera.

_“Bid welcome to Hannibal’s gusts –_

_The elephants of Carthage!_

_As guides to our conquering quests,_

_Dido sends_

_Hannibal’s friends!”_

The chorus sang exultantly as a life-sized mechanical replica of an elephant moved onto the stage to lift Norton onto its back, signalling the triumph of Hannibal. The opera continued and Dimmock and his guests watching in appreciation as The Woman and Signore Norton sang their parts to near perfection. It became quite clear that Mr. Anderson and Ms. Donovan were indeed purchasing quite a lucrative business, which would easily fulfill any desires of advancement they may possess. The reputation of the London Opera was well founded. Of course, this only made the mystery of Mr. Dimmock’s retirement all the more puzzling to Donovan. If his performers were so talented, indeed there was no fault that _she_ could find with the performance, than what had caused his sudden desire to sell?

The chorus finished on a triumphant note. The cast smiled to each other, obviously pleased with how they had performed now that there were no longer any people standing in the middle of the stage or running across it with ladders. Before they could begin to talk amongst themselves, however, Dimmock clapped his hands for attention, walking back out to center stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen – Mycroft, I thank you,” he nodded to them all in general recognition of their well performed rehearsal. “May I have your attention please?” he called, looking around him, waiting for the chatter to die down once again. As it did so, he looked toward his guests, motioning for them to join him center stage. “As you know,” he said slowly, seriously. “For some weeks now there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true.” Mercifully true. He could now leave this blasted business behind him.

Excited whispers broke out amongst the cast. “Ah hah!” a strong female voice proclaimed as knowing smiles were exchanged and anticipatory smirks passed between a few of the stage hands. No doubt, later that night bets would be collected in response to this not all together surprising news. Given the nature of the opera house, the stress not only of running it and ensuring the stars were happy, but also the problems that rose around the ‘other’ matter of the London Opera, well it was a surprise only that Dimmock had lasted as long as he had. There had been bets placed from the time that Dimmock had first taken over the opera house as to how long he would last. Still, his news was not in the least bit surprising; especially not to Mycroft, nor to the seemingly absent-minded ballet dancer Sherlock Holmes. For those two, Dimmock was leaving exactly on schedule.

“It is my pleasure,” Dimmock continued loudly, causing the many whispered conversations to peter slowly down to silence. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the two individuals who now own the London Opera,” he gestured to his guests. “Mister Richard Anderson…”

The man stepped forward. He was of average height, his brown hair was cut short, but with its part down the middle it somehow still seemed to look shaggy. His rather narrow features seemed to project an air of perpetual annoyance and near disdain of the world around him. He held himself a little self-consciously, as if waiting for someone to challenge him so he could assert his superiority right then and there.

“…and Missus Sally Donovan.”

As her name was spoken, the impeccably dressed, dark woman stepped forward next to her partner. Her wiry black hair was pulled austerely back into a bun, though dark curls had managed to escape and framed her strong face. Brown eyes quickly surveyed those gathered and quickly made a decision as to their worth to her at that moment. The confident way she held herself seemed to say that she was used to being in charge and was not ready to allow any nonsense from anyone she met. This was a strong woman who was used to having her word heard and headed by those she was in charge of.

There was a polite round of applause, some of the stage hands even bowed respectfully, as the two new managers were introduced. Looks were exchanged between members of the cast. New managers. The thought was unspoken, but all present were likely thinking the same thing. How would these managers fare once they met the _other_ manager? Some secret smiles appeared as stage hands and cast members began to wager bets in their minds that would be voiced later.

As the applause petered to a slow and awkward halt, the audible clearing of a throat could be heard. Dimmock looked toward the sound, and his smile became obviously as he held out his hand in the direction of the sound. “Gentlemen, Ms. Irene Adler,” he introduced quickly. “Our leading soprano for five seasons now.”

Irene stepped forward, her entire bearing haughty and proud as she executed the smallest of courtesies toward the new managers. Her sharp eyes looked them over, and a secret smirk crossed her strong features. Putty in her hands.

Anderson moved forward, taking her hand and raising it to his lips in greeting. “Of course, of course,” he breathed excitedly. “I have experience all your greatest roles madam,” he pronounced proudly.

Irene pulled her hand back from the over eager man, a faint look of distaste crossing her face. The man didn’t seem to notice. He was a particular fan of her talents, and was most anxious to see her perform again. After all, it wasn’t every day one got to meet one of the foremost opera stars in the world. Indeed, so caught up was he in staring that he hardly noticed the introductions continuing on around him.

“And Signore Norton,” Dimmock motioned to the man who had positioned himself strategically behind Irene.

“An honour Signore,” Donovan said politely, executing a half bow in his direction.

“If I remember correctly,” Anderson suddenly spoke, causing Donovan to shoot him an annoyed look. “Elissa has a rather marvelous aria in Act Three of ‘Hannibal’,” his eyes hadn’t once left Irene, but now they shone with the faintest light of conniving hope. “I wonder,” he inclined his head to the opera star. “If, as a personal favour, you would oblige us with a private rendition?” he glanced around at those assembled, catching the dark look that Mrs. Hudson was sending his way. “Unless of course,” he said, somewhat acerbic. “Mrs. Hudson is against it?”

Irene’s eyes watched the man carefully, weighing his attentions against her own enjoyment of being in the spotlight. At last, she inclined her head slightly. “If my manager commands,” she nearly drawled, turning toward Mrs. Hudson, a sculpted eye brow quirked in apparent question, though her dark eyes clearly stated her true command.

“If my diva commands,” she said amicably enough, though irritation was clear in her stance.

“Yes,” Irene said shortly, returning to center stage to take up her pose. “I do.”

Mrs. Hudson stifled a soft sigh, turning to the correct page in the score book, ensuring that the members of the orchestra were in the correct place as well. “Will two bars be a sufficient introduction?” she asked, looking to those assembled on stage.

“Two bars will be quite sufficient,” Anderson said quickly, his eagerness shining through.

Nodding, Mrs. Hudson returned her attention to Irene, ensuring that she was ready. “Madam?” she questioned.

“Maestro,” Irene nodded, clasping her hands in front of her as she took a deep, steadying breath. Her breathing remained precise and in control as the introduction was played on the piano. Right on cue, she launched into the aria.

                _“Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly,_

_When we’ve said goodbye._

_Remember me_

_Once in a while –_

_Please promise me_

_You’ll try,”_

Anderson appeared to be enraptured by the near shrillness of Irene’s voice as she crested the high notes. The rest of the cast stirred restlessly, already well familiar with Irene’s singing and devoutly wishing they had the luxury of the ear plugs the cleaning staff had just popped into their ears.

                “ _When you find_

_That, once again,_

_You long to take your heart…”_

Elissa’s aria was suddenly cut off as Irene screamed, crumbling to the stage as a backdrop crashed down on her. The thick fabric fell in folds, obscuring the prima donna from the view of the rest of the shocked cast. Immediately a frantic babble of voices broke out.

“He’s here!”

“The Phantom of the Opera.”

“He is with us…”

“The ghost….”


	3. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casting changes are made at the opera, and the author doesn't even try to justify them.

A nervous panic broke over the assembled cast as they backed away from the fallen prop, milling about uselessly. They had all known it would only be a matter of time, what with new managers…of course he would make himself known.

There was one figure that stood apart however. Unlike the rest of the nervous crew, his cat-like eyes were eagerly scanning the scaffolding above them, looking for some sign. The absent-minded Sherlock Homes was not, like everyone else, casting about futilely for some kind of escape or drowning in his own fear and uncertainty. No. While before his eyes had been vacant and distracted, now they were sharp and intense. At last, a new game to play with his fleet footed friend. Smirking, he took a half step toward the edge of the stage, intent to look for some clue of the phantom’s presence.

“You idiots!” Norton’s enraged cry cut through the milieu of voices.

“Sherlock,” Greg hissed in worry, reaching out to his friend, eyes questioning. Sherlock paused, inwardly cursing the attentiveness. Now that Greg had seen him, he knew his absence would be remarked upon if he were to leave. Reluctantly, he moved back into the larger group, chaffing at the confines of the expectations of friendship. He shook his head slightly to forestall any more questions from Lestrade. If he must play the part of frantic chorus person, than he would do just that.

“Irene! Irene! Are you hurt?” Norton rushed over to the trapped diva, worry evident in his frantic steps.

Dimmock scowled, looking up into the rafters. “Powers!” he bellowed, letting Norton fuss over the diva for the moment. He had other things to worry about for now. Thank goodness those papers were signed. “Where is Powers?” he demanded of the cast, his eyes immediately fixing on Mycroft.

“Is no one concerned for our Prima Donna?” Norton wailed, glaring accusingly at those around him as he knelt by Irene.

“Get that man down here!” Dimmock ordered Mycroft. “Chief of the flies,” he said as an aside to Anderson and Donovan as he moved to join Norton by the trapped singer. “He is the one responsible for this. Ms. Adler, are you quite all right?” he asked the diva, his attention shifting.

Irene struggled under the weight of the background. “Off!” she commanded. “Get this off me at once!” she demanded imperiously. It was clear that The Woman was someone who was used to her commands being obeyed.

Slowly, the back drop began to rise. Making a noise of intense displeasure, Irene climbed out from under it, brushing furiously at the dirt on her costume as she walked purposefully away from the prop. Once the back drop was raised all the way, a man walked nervously out onto the stage. In his hands was a length of rope that looked curiously like a noose. Why he was carrying it, no one seemed particularly interested in asking, especially not Dimmock.

“Powers! For God’s sake man! What is going on up there?” he demanded, his brow furrowed angrily as his eyes darted nervously around at the little clusters of people that had formed on stage.

“Please sir,” the man said plaintively, holding his hands up to entreat him. “Don’t look at me. God as my witness, I was not at my post,” he said earnestly. It was not something that one normally confessed to. Then again, given the circumstances it should not have been all that surprising that he would say such things.

But he wasn’t lying in this case, one astute mind noticed right away. He was nervous, anyone would be nervous considering what had just happened, but he wasn’t guilty. No, he hadn’t been the one who had dropped the back drop, accidentally or otherwise. This deduction caused an anticipatory grin to cross Sherlock’s sharp features. No, it hadn’t been Mr. Powers, which left just one other option.

“There’s no one there,” Powers continued to insist. “And if there is…well…” he shifted nervously, eyes darting around in apprehension. “Then it must be a ghost,” he whispered eerily.

“He’s there,” Lestrade gasped, looking up above them. “The Phantom of the Opera!”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed calmly, his eyes following his friend’s. Well, he _had_ been there at least. There was no doubt in the young dancer’s mind that the Phantom was, by now, long since gone back to his hiding place; his point had been made.

“Everyone, please,” Donovan said, obviously trying to placate Greg, as well as the other dancers who had moved into a tighter huddle. This was no way to start running a business. Ghosts! Phantoms! Collapsing props! What was going on in this opera house? And was it this that had caused Dimmock to sell the place at nearly a steal? If that was the case, she was uncertain whether she was pleased, or annoyed with this. It certainly made things far more complicated than she had anticipated.

“My lady,” Anderson moved towards Irene, holding himself in a manner he thought might be soothing. “These things do happen,” he said hopefully. It was just an accident…right?

“Yes,” Irene said softly, her eyes shining with righteous anger, and just the faintest hints of fear. “Yes, these things do happen,” she conceded, though her tone was dangerously soft. “For the past five years ‘these things do happen’,” she waved her hands dramatically, shooting a pointed glare at Dimmock before turning her eyes to the unfortunate new owners of the London Opera. “Well,” her shoulders rose and fell in a languid shrug. “Until you stop these things from happening, this thing,” she motioned to herself haughtily. “Does not happen! I’m leaving. Norton, come,” she commanded, turning on her heel and stalking off the stage.

“Amateurs,” Norton said derisively, gathering Irene’s furs from the wings before following her out the side door.

Dimmock watched them go, but for once, no feeling of panic fell over him. Well, that was different…and quite nice. “Well,” he said, turning to Anderson and Donovan, nodding cordially. “I don’t think there is much more to do to assist you, gentlemen,” he inclined his head politely. “If you need me, I shall be in Australia,” he smiled kindly enough, ignoring the panic stricken looks the new managers were sending his way. Waving to the company as he passed, he left. As he stepped through the doors it was like a weight had lifted from him.

That weight, however, seemed to immediately fall directly upon Anderson and Donovan as the anxious eyes of the company turned to stare at them.

Anderson cleared his throat awkwardly. “The Woman she…will be back…” he tried to sound confident, but his words came out more of a desperate question than a statement.

“You think so do you?” Mycroft said softly, his voice dry with carefully cultivated disbelief. Though nothing outward showed, there was a faint air of condescension about the man as he walked toward them, an envelope in his hands. The look he levelled at them was neutral, though something about the way he carried himself proclaimed that he knew much more than they could ever dream to comprehend. “I have a message sirs,” he continued, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and he had not just silently challenged the new managers. “From the Opera Ghost.”

The ballet girls twittered, milling about in obvious fear and apprehension. Amongst them, Sherlock’s eyes lit eagerly on the envelope. If only he could get a hold of it. Surely there would be a clue somewhere on it as to the identity of the mysterious man that haunted both the theatre and his own dreams. There had to be something, some way of getting a hold of it. He knew that Mycroft would not simply give it to him, but then, he had begun to wonder why it seemed to be only Mycroft who was given information from the Phantom. Perhaps that was a line of inquiry that would yield more information than what he had discovered so far.

“God in Heaven!” Donovan exclaimed disgusted as she looked at the letter Mycroft was holding in disdain. “You’re all obsessed!” What exactly was going on here? It was if they were all part of some depraved cult that lived in constant fear. Opera Ghost? It was the story of children…or perhaps some kind of strange opera.

Mycroft continued, unaffected by Donovan’s outburst. “He merely welcomes you to his opera house,” he read, eyes scanning the notes.

“ _His_ opera house?” Anderson spluttered.

“And he commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use. He also reminds you that his salary is due,” the ballet instructor finished, folding the note and slipping it neatly back into its envelope.

“His _salary_?” Donovan repeated, her voice rising an octave. It seemed as though she was hoping that if she repeated it the answer would change. Salary? What salary? What kind of ghost wanted money?

“Yes,” Mycrofst responded shortly, giving a short sharp nod of head. “Monsieur Dimmock paid him twenty thousand francs a month.”

“Twenty…twenty thousand?” Anderson stared at him, mouth agape in shock. Surely not! That was insanity!

Mycroft turned bored eyes to the spluttering manager. “Perhaps you can afford more,” he drawled coldly. “With the Earl of Baskerville as your patron.”

This unconventional announcement set the company twittering again. Patron? The Earl of Baskerville? The whispers turned excited this time. The ballet girls giggling and gossiping amongst themselves, a patron, a wealthy patron! The Earl of Baskerville no less, all had heard of the young noble’s good looks and charms.

Even Sherlock was not immune to this announcement. His pale features tightened slightly, hands clenching at his sides. Surely…surely not, it could not possibly be…could it? He hadn’t heard anything in the opera house, how could this be the first time he heard of this development? Damn Mycroft! He had been purposefully keeping the secret from him, he had to have been. His brother, estranged though they may be, knew exactly what this news would mean to him.

“Sir,” Anderson sighed in exasperation as looked to the ballet instructor with no little amount of annoyance. “I had hoped to have made that announcement myself,” he almost snapped. Honestly, was this anyway for a business to be run? On gossip, rumours and…ghosts?

Mycroft didn’t seem the least bit phased by this show of obvious disdain for his position. Let them think they were the ones who ran this theatre. Soon they would learn just exactly where their place was, and it most certainly wasn’t talking down to him. “Will the Earl be at the performance tonight, _sir_?” he asked instead, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

“In our box,” Donovan said tightly. “That is if there is a gala.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly before he managed to get his reaction under a control. Not soon enough it seemed. A gentle touch on his arm caused the male to glance to his side. Greg was looking at him with concern, confusion, and no little bit of curiosity. He shook his head slightly, pulling his arm out from under his hand. There was no need for Greg to know; most likely nothing would come of it anyways. After all, what was the possibility of the Earl noticing a dancer? Especially with the _precious_ Woman singing…that was, if she decided to sing at all. A secret smirk crossed his features. No, there was no need for concern or…no, especially not that.

“Madam, who is the understudy for this role?” Anderson asked, looking to Mrs. Hudson.

“Understudy?” Mrs. Hudson repeated incredulously. “There is no _understudy_ for The Woman!”

“Sherlock Holmes could sing it, sir,” Mycroft said easily, his blank eyes masterfully hiding his thoughts.

 “The chorus boy?” Donovan’s eyes snapped to the two males, her gaze resting penetratingly on Sherlock. Sherlock _Holmes_ , the ballet instructor’s younger brother. Did the man think her so green that she would blindly take his word of the talents of this background figure without blinking? As if, no doubt the man was just trying to further his brother’s career, and she wasn’t likely to put her own position in jeopardy on his word alone.

“He’s been taking lesson from a great teacher,” Lestrade chimed in, stepping forward and inclining his head respectfully. He didn’t dare glance back to his friend, but Sherlock had fortunately managed to school his features into a careful, humble mask; none of the true annoyance he felt showed in his eyes. This was not something that he had wanted known. Not yet at the very least, he had wanted to bide his time.

“From whom?” Anderson barked at Sherlock, motioning him forward imperiously.

“I do not know sir…” Sherlock responded quietly. His mask didn’t slip exactly, but his eyes shone with thinly veiled annoyance at the tone of the man as he reluctantly emerged from the cluster of ballet girls. Not that his stepping forward was necessary, they had all backed away once attention had been called to him, whispering to each other fervently. Sherlock’s cat-like eyes assessed the man in front of him without seeming to, and immediately dismissed him from his mind - pompous ass.

“Oh, not you as well!” Donovan spat, disgusted with the entire situation. She turned to Anderson, clearly in a displeased and desperate state. “Can you believe it?” she inquired incredulously. “A full house! And we have to cancel…we have to refund a full house.” And on their first day as managers to boot. What kind of message of incompetency did _that_ send?

“Let him sing for you,” Mycroft said evenly, meeting the managers’ disbelieving eyes. It was clear that the ballet managed was not suggesting this course of action, it was more an implacable order. “He has been well taught.” Brother or no, Mycroft was not one to falsely endorse someone’s skills, even if the new managers did not yet know that. Despite Sherlock’s antagonism toward him, Mycroft knew the younger man could pull this off, and he had interests of his own to protect. He would push this pawn forward to its proper place, and then watch how the game proceeded from there.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, but nodded to the orchestra. She knew how the opera was run. If Mycroft said that Sherlock was to audition as The Woman’s replacement, then she would instruct the orchestra to play the music, regardless of whether the owners had agreed or not. “From the beginning of the aria then,” she said tiredly raising her baton. “Come then,” she motioned to the center of the stage.

Sherlock moved to the center of the stage, taking a deep breath. While he really didn’t want to do this his brother, and Greg, had already volunteered him, and it really wasn’t in his nature to back down, no matter what the challenge. Besides, this wasn’t much of a challenge; he knew he could sing it. He nodded to Mrs. Hudson, who waved the piano in for the intro.

“Anderson… this is doing nothing for my nerves,” Donovan hissed softly, her eyes glued to the confident figure of the man standing center stage.

                ‘ _Think of me_

_Think of me fondly,_

_When we’ve said goodbye._

_Remember me_

_Once in a while –_

_Please promise me_

_You’ll try.’_

The song was gentle and soft, Sherlock’s voice smooth and sweet as the melody poured from his lips.

Anderson nodded slightly. Not bad, really not bad. It was not the same as The Woman’s voice, it was more subtle. Yet he seemed to be caressing each word, the phrases shaped perfectly yet not too harsh. “Don’t fret, Donovan,” he said easily as Sherlock continued.

                ‘ _When you find_

_That, once again,_

_You long_

_To take your heart back_

_And be free –_

_If you ever find_

_A moment,_

_Spare a thought_

_For me.’_

The orchestra fell silent as the verse came to an end. Mrs. Hudson was staring in wonder at the man in front of her. “Bravo,” she breathed. It was unlike anything she had heard before, but it was good, stupendous even. It was completely different from The Woman’s sound, somehow, it seemed more accessible. This man would do, he would do wonderfully. He could fill in for The Woman without any disastrous fall out.

“It is settled then,” Anderson said firmly.

Immediately, the stage erupted in a flurry of movement, there was much still to be done, and now more to prepare in order to accommodate their new star.


	4. The Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad habit is revealed, and a dire state of mind

**Chapter 2: The Gala**

                                ‘ _Recall those days_

_Look back on all those times,_

_Think of the things_

_We’ll never do –_

_There will never be_

_A day, when_

_I won’t think_

_Of you….’_

The theatre erupted into applause. The full house seemed to rise in a wave of people as they all clapped for this surprising new talent with the magnificent voice. On stage, Sherlock seemed to glow under the attention, smiling out at the cheering audience and inclining his head regally. Everything had gone off without a hitch. His voice had remained strong yet perfectly pitched - his tutor would be most pleased, and he knew that his dark angel had been watching. He had to have been there. It was just too bad that there was no way to look at the entire audience to see if a face could be recognized.

“Bravo! Bravo!” One voice rose above those that surrounded it, but it was not enough to stand out to the man on stage. Still, the young noble clapped. Magnificent! What a magnificent person and the star…

“ _Can it be?”_ he thought to himself. “ _Can it really be Sherlock?”_ He raised his opera glasses as he cheered again, adding his voice to the tumult. “What a change!” he exclaimed as the figure on stage was brought into sharper focus. “You’re really not the rakish boy that you once were,” a smile crossed his features as the glasses were lowered, though he still leaned on the side of his box. Idly, he picked up a flute of champagne, taking a small sip.

“I wonder…do you remember me?” he whispered to no one, listening in rapt attention as Sherlock launched into the final verse and chorus. “Of course you do…and I certainly remember you,” he chuckled, straightening as he took another sip. Well, there was only one way to find out for sure. Not waiting for the performance to end completely, he made his way to the stairs behind the box. He had to see him, had to know. It really was a wonderful coincidence.

                ‘ _Promise me,_

_That sometimes_

_You will think_

_Of me!’_

As the last crescendo died down the curtains closed, muffling the cheers and applause from the audience. Taking great care to not let the strain show, Sherlock turned to the ballet girls who milled about, chattering at him, gushing about how good he was. In an attempt to silence them, or at least have them disperse, the dark haired man passed each of them a flower from the bouquet that had been given to him. Sherlock had done well, and he knew it. The cheering had been as loud as, if not louder than, any that he had heard for The Woman. Even Mrs. Hudson had given some grudging approval for his rendition.

“Yes, you did well,” Mycroft’s voice came from nowhere, causing Sherlock to turn around quickly. “He will be pleased,” the ballet master continued, his eyes fixed appraisingly on the younger man.

“He?” Sherlock met the gaze steadily. Could he mean…? “What do you know of him?” he asked quickly. A clue! At last he had a clue to the identity of his mysterious partner in this strange game being played in dreams and back rooms.

“And you! You were a disgrace tonight!” Mycroft moved past his brother, his irritation aimed at one of the dancer’s behind him. Sherlock’s question had been completely ignored. Only the faintest of smirks briefly passing over Mycroft’s features told Sherlock that it had been heard, and was purposefully being dismissed.

“Mycroft,” he repeated his voice held low in order to hide his irritation. He had detected a lead, and now he was determined to follow it up. “Please, what do you know of him?” he asked, trying to be civil as he followed his brother back onto the stage.

Of course, Mycroft continued to ignore him, his attention focused instead on the ballerina’s under his charge. “Here, we will rehearse. Now!” he banged his cane to emphasize hi orders. “Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse!” he said in disgust, continuing to bang his stick to keep time for the ballet girls who settled quickly into a rehearsal pattern.

Glaring, Sherlock reluctantly moved away. He knew when he was dismissed. It was most vexing, to have a clue dangled in front of him, then be forced to watch it fly away. Mycroft had to be doing it on purpose! There was no other reason for him to mention…‘ _him’_ unless it was to taunt him like this. It was most frustrating. If he hadn’t already had a nemesis, Mycroft would fit the bill perfectly. Fortunately, he had a way to deal with frustrations and allow his mind to clear, perhaps more had been revealed to him than he yet realized.

 With a plan now in his mind, Sherlock moved purposefully off, away from the stage and to the dressing room he had been rather quickly thrown into earlier that day to prepare for the gala. Despite the haste, he had managed to stash some of his ‘medicine’ in there, and it was to that he now moved toward. The colourless liquid that helped him clear his mind when he wanted to ponder problems such as these. Yes, it was there waiting and he knew he would need it if he wanted to rationally think through and organize all the events that had happened that day.

“Bravo, bravo, bravissimo…” a ghostly voice echoed in the empty hallway.

Sherlock froze for a moment, his hand stopping as it reached for the dressing room door. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t turn around, he knew he wouldn’t see what he hoped; no one else was there. So where was the voice coming from then? Slowly he turned his eyes upward, but no, there were no rafters there either. Where was _he_ hiding? He frowned, thinking carefully. There had to be passages, all through the opera building most likely, but Sherlock had never come across any of the entrances. How annoying! His adversary had an advantage over him yet again. He would have to make sure to level the playing field, and quickly at that.

“Sherlock? Where are you?” Lestrade came around the corner, smiling slightly as he saw him. “Are you hiding?” he asked incredulously. “You were perfect and you know it well,” he continued in near exasperation.

Wonderful. Another distraction.

Annoyance briefly flashed through Sherlock before he controlled it swiftly. “I wasn’t hiding,” he said evenly as he pushed the door open to his dressing room. “I just wanted to retrieve something from my dressing room. But…” he smirked slightly. “You think I was perfect?”

“Of course I do, everyone does,” Lestrade said gruffly. “I only wish I knew your secret! Who is       this new tutor of yours?”

Stepping inside the room, Sherlock’s face took on a strange look. He was thinking deeply, focused completely on the problem of the man who was both teacher and adversary to him. He didn’t want to divulge any of the precious information he had managed to gather. Perhaps he could throw Lestrade off with some fanciful tale. He knew that the other man did enjoy them; for all that they made him wary. “My father used to tell me of an angel, an angel of music” he said abstractedly, moving toward the vanity where he had hidden both needle and drugs. “I used to dream that he would appear to me, to guide me” carefully, he glanced over his shoulder, an intense gleam in his eyes. “Now as I sing, it’s almost as if I can sense him, I know he’s here.”

It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either. Sherlock was aware that whoever it was did watch him closely, did listen and guide him in singing. The only problem was that he didn’t know exactly why. What was the point of this little game that they were playing? “Sometimes, I can hear him, he calls me softly,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the corners as he spoke, a hand resting lightly on top of vanity, yearning for what lay inside but knowing he had to wait. He couldn’t, not while Greg was here, he would try to stop him again. “Hiding somewhere. I know that he is always with me. He – the unseen genius,” he nearly hissed a fanatic light passing through his eyes. Genius, yes, they were both geniuses. It was a game of genius; all that remained to be seen was which would prove the stronger mind.

“Sherlock….” Greg breathed uneasily, his eyes locked on the figure of his friend. “Sherlock you…you must have been dreaming,” he moved toward him carefully. “The drugs again? You know…stories like this can’t come true.” His voice was even, though Sherlock could see in the way his jaw clenched, and the way he stood so stiffly that he was trying very hard to keep in control of himself. “Stop this talking in riddles, you know no one can follow what you say when you get like this.”

On top of the vanity, Sherlock’s fingers began to shake slightly. He needed it, he needed to clear his mind and Greg was getting in the way! Suddenly the room was so hot, his mind working overtime as withdrawal began set in. “Angel of Music!” he called out suddenly, his eyes near feverish now as he spun around, hoping that maybe erratic behaviour would drive the other man from his room.

“Who is this angel?” Greg asked himself softly, watching his friend in great concern. He had a feeling that it was not so much an angel, as the habit that Sherlock had picked up somewhere. No doubt from the stage hands, but he claimed it helped him to think clearly, move better.

“Hide no longer,” Sherlock continued, eyes darting around the room again. “Secret and strange angel,” he breathed, sweat now beading on his forehead. “He’s with me even now…”

Greg approached quickly, taking one of Sherlock’s shaking hands in his and inwardly cursing. What was he doing to himself? “Your hands are cold,” he said in concern. “Your face. God Sherlock it’s so white!” Though he was normally pale, it had now reached an alarming shade. It was like he himself was a ghost. Reaching around behind the man, Lestrade slid open the drawer. He knew why Sherlock had come in here, and it seemed he really did need it considering his current state.

“It excites me,” the dark haired male breathed, cheeks suddenly becoming flush.

Hurriedly, Greg pressed the clear vial into one of Sherlock’s hands, passing him the needle with his other. “Here, quickly, take this before anyone sees you…” he hissed. If anyone saw Sherlock in such a state…well…nothing good could come of it.

“Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft’s imperious voice came from the doorway.

Both men jumped, Sherlock hiding his hands quickly behind his back while Lestrade turned guiltily towards the door. “Yes sir?” he said carefully.

“Are you a dancer?” Mycroft asked softly, almost as if he were curious. When Greg nodded slowly, his face became annoyed. “Then come and practice!” he banged his cane once more for emphasis.

“Yes sir, I’m sorry sir,” Greg said quickly, rushing out the door, but not before shooting a quick look back at Sherlock, his eyes seeming to plead with his friend to be safe. Then he disappeared around the corner again, going to join the other dancers back on stage.

“I was asked to give this to you,” Mycroft nearly drawled as he held out a note to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at the note, his hands were full, he couldn’t take it… not unless he wanted to drop something or reveal to Mycroft what exactly he was doing back here.

“Well?” Mycroft demanded vague irritation in his tone. Still, Sherlock made no move to take the paper. Making a sound of displeasure in his throat, Mycroft laid the note on the dressing room table and left him to his own devices. Honestly! Who did he think he was fooling? Mycroft was aware of everything that went on in the opera house, and that included his brother’s little ‘habit’.

Carefully, Sherlock laid the vial and needle down on the table, next to the note. Moving quickly, he went to close the door after Mycroft, breathing out a faint sigh.

At last!

Turning back to the vanity, he paused, his interest piqued by the note. He could wait a few moments longer, the note didn’t appear to be that long.

Picking up the paper, he let his eyes scan it quickly. “A red scarf…” he mused. “The attic…Little Lotte….” Could it possibly be?


End file.
